


My Beloved

by TunnelRabbit



Category: Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Courtship, Cross-cultural, F/M, Immediately Post-Canon, Jewish Identity, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TunnelRabbit/pseuds/TunnelRabbit
Summary: My hand was still in his, cool and firm—he whose name I now held. I examined the feeling—flesh pressed against flesh, one of ice and one of blood, lives now held in each other’s trust. I could destroy him as easily as he could me. The fact that I no longer wished to did not lessen the security I felt in this new balance of power.Miryem reflects.
Relationships: Miryem Mandelstam/The Staryk Lord
Comments: 20
Kudos: 122





	My Beloved

My Staryk lord waited patiently by the sleigh while I embraced my mother and father one last time, clutching them tightly to my breast. One last time as a daughter under their roof, that is, and that only symbolically. The fact that I had in reality left long ago was left unsaid, in deference to my husband’s honor. The fact I had become, even longer ago, someone other than the daughter they wanted was also left unsaid. Regret would only hold us back and this day's gift was a new future, carrying the promise of peace.

But the tears were not symbolic, as real and true as the autumn rain that washes summer into winter. Our love for one another had never faltered and would bind us over any distance. Thrice proven, thrice true, and many more besides.

All vows and promises spoken, there was nothing left to do but accept the tears soaking into my mantle.

The fanged stag pawed at the new snow with an impatient snort and I pried myself away. “I will see you soon,” I reminded everyone. “And as often as I can. The road will be open for months yet.”

My mother nodded, pulling back and collecting herself with a sniffle. I clasped Wanda’s large, warm hand in both of mine, then pulled her into an embrace as well, and nodded farewell to the brothers. “Take good care of them.”

My husband extended his hand and I took it, lifted into the sleigh as if by a gust of wind. Just as effortlessly, the stag leapt forward and we flew down the Staryk road, toward my new home.

I still held his hand, cool and firm—he whose name I now held. I examined the feeling—flesh pressed against flesh, one of ice and one of blood, lives now held in each other’s trust. I could destroy him as easily as he could me. The fact that I no longer wished to did not lessen the security I felt in this new balance of power.

I shifted my hand, adjusting my grip, and settled more comfortably into the seat, suddenly conscious of each point of contact between us, at hip and shoulder, and thought of tonight. Tonight there would be no more forgoing of rights, no bargaining. The thought left me suddenly shy and unwilling to raise my eyes, even though I knew his were seeking mine.

What would it be like? To be with a man—any man—but to be with a man of ice? A _Staryk_. My younger self (my self of last winter) would have been appalled. Would he freeze me to the core? Would I melt him in the heat of passion? Neither sounded ideal.

He _would_ pick that moment to speak: “What are you thinking, my queen?”

“Of…marriage.”

“Naturally.” He paused, perhaps awkwardly. “And does this one make you happy? Answer me truly.”

“It feels right.” I, too, paused, a little nonplussed that he wished to know _that_ , of all things. Yes, the ceremony at home had been joyful, in the company of my family and the comfort of Jewish blessings. But that was a moment in time, behind us now. A lifetime stretched out ahead.

The Staryk king wanted me, with an obsessive fascination, the intensity of which had only become clear to me these last few weeks of unexpected courtship. Contrary to all expectations, I had earned my place, and with it, his respect and loyalty. He could not but confirm our original mockery of a marriage with a sincere one, once I had met the qualifications of a true Staryk queen according to his terms (surpassed them, perhaps, as they hadn't included besting him by ruse and ambush); no matter how facetious, his promise had been freely made and honor it he must.

He therefore met _my_ standard for a husband, the one I had set by my own parents’ marriage: he would cherish me above all others. He would value me, and respect what I valued and the laws I held to, alongside the greatest treasure in his mountain. (I understood now what that was, and knew better than to be held _higher_ than his people.) His faithfulness to me had purchased mine to him—in my actions long before I could acknowledge it even to myself.

And I would be a queen—there was that. I would be powerful. Peace would come under my watch; under our reign, balance between the sunlit and winter lands would be maintained. These were the considerations I had weighed in the short courtship I had required of him.

But was I happy? I thought of Basia and Isaac, the warmth and laughter of their wedding, before I’d ruined it with my schemes and unfortunate liaisons. But they had cleaned up the mess and carried on, and they were still in love, still married. They were certainly happy, in ordinary days passed with Isaac at his craft, Basia in her home, with their ordinary children (the first due any day, was the news). And these were things I would never have now—not in any recognizable form.

But maybe I never would have had them anyway. I imagined myself a cold, hard spinster in Vysnia, heir to my grandfather’s business—wealthy and successful, yet feared and resented. That was the picture that so grieved my parents, I understood now. But it had never occurred to them to fear _this_ —who could have possibly imagined such a fate!—and perhaps that was how they had found it in themselves to accept their strange son-in-law, to give us their blessing.

The king was regarding me patiently, no enemy to silence. He still expected an answer.

“I suppose we shall see. It is hard for me to imagine just what our life together will be like.” It was the only answer I could give honestly. “Will you present me as your wife today in the grove?”

“Yes.” He turned his gaze to the road ahead, fixed on the horizon, though the mountain was not yet visible. “While there is no need for a second coronation—your last one was memorable enough—we will announce our true bond this time.” 

“Ah. The ketubbah, then? Or one according to your traditions?”

“They are not so different. Yours is simply more…defensive.”

No doubt the Staryk would think it crass that a ketubbah had to be written down, that it was enforceable because mortals were dishonorable enough to require its protection. There was another thoughtful silence. He stroked his thumb, smooth and uncalloused, despite his summer of hard labor, along my knuckles, turning the ring of twined silver and gold on my index finger almost absently, though my attention was fully caught by this new intimacy.

“ _Ani l’dodi v’dodi li.”_

My jaw dropped. “You remembered the Hebrew?” 

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. I think we could say that, to my people. That is good.”

I stared at him. Yes, we had spoken those words at the wedding. They were part of the ceremony. To bring them to the Staryk world, to lift them from ritual and cast a cold, unfiltered light upon their true meaning….was he saying that he _loved_ me?

He turned back to me, smiling slightly at my expression. I closed my mouth and tried to look less poleaxed. He loosened his grip from mine, still palm to palm, and skimmed his fingertips down the length of my fingers, the lightest caress. A shiver ran through me, and it was not from the cold.

He was, I realized just then, handsome. Right now, with that light in his eyes, the same one I’d seen when he pulled me from the river of gold, when he held me to him just a moment too long. He was always striking, but now I saw the angles of his face as chiseled, the clean lines of his features, noble. Their edges seemed more rounded than usual, perhaps, softened by the sentiment of the moment, into contours I could touch, a cheek I could stroke, perhaps brush the hair from his eyes, trailing fingers down to his mouth, to lips whose potential I noticed for the first time.

But my hand remained cradled in his, my fingers traced again by his. My breath quickened, condensing in the winter air. He seemed mesmerized by the steam, just as I could not seem to pull my eyes from his lips, sensuous and…soft?

Yes. They landed gently on mine, the simplest of kisses, a touch of frost there and gone, leaving an unlikely heat in my belly. The wedding night took on substance in my mind for the first time, something real that we would do. And it might be good.


End file.
